It was quite a day. Not the kind of day you’d expect to have inside a prison.
The holidays were fast approaching when the inmates walked into the prison’s Bible college room and were swallowed by pink.
Huge pink swaths of decorative fabric, draped from the ceiling. Pink carpets. Pink tablecloths. Pink flowers.
They weren’t dressed like inmates, either. All 29 of them wore donated tuxedos. Bowties. Shined shoes. Buttoniers, made of fresh-cut flowers. The kinds of outfits you’d never expect to wear inside Angola.
Welcome to Louisiana State Penitentiary, otherwise known as “Angola.” The facility lies smack dab in West Feliciana Parish. This is the largest state prison in the U.S. You’re looking at over 18,000 acres, 28 square miles of land, and about 6,000 inmates.
“This ain’t just a prison,” says one inmate. “Angola’s a town.”
And just like a small city, it comes with its own social norms, folkways, and culture. Prison culture hardens most inmates beyond recognition.
One Angola prisoner explains: “Imagine a thousand more such daily intrusions in your life. Every hour and minute of every day, and you can grasp the source of this paranoia, this anger that could consume me at any moment if I lost control.”
Inmate Leslie Harris is serving a decades-long sentence for armed robbery. He’s been inside for a while. He probably won’t get out before his daughter’s first prom or graduation. He will likely miss her wedding.
But tonight, the rules of Leslie’s reality were suspended for a moment—albeit a brief one.
His evening began when 37 inmate daughters were turned loose to reunite with their inmate dads.
The girls exploded beneath floral arches and walkways, adorned with rose petals, and made pictures with their fathers. Daughters ranged from ages 5 to 20. They were wearing evening gowns. Hair fixed. Makeup. There were enough corsages to start a community rose garden.
Leslie’s daughter surprised him from behind. He turned to see her. She was crying. Her makeup was running.
“When I turned around,” said Leslie, “and saw my baby in that dress and she busted out crying… I sobbed, man, and I ain’t no crier.”
A holiday meal was served. Then, inmates performed choreographed dances they’d rehearsed especially for their daughters. Everyone cheered as a horde of men in tuxes danced in a line. It looked like the quintessential modern-day wedding reception—minus the open bar.
Then, the DJ played something slow.
Fathers embraced daughters, and everyone slow-danced. The couples swayed to Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely.” All noses in the room erupted in sniffs.
This was the first daddy-daughter dance in Angola since the state converted an old cotton plantation into a penitentiary in 1901. The dance was arranged by God Behind Bars, a nonprofit that partners with churches and jails.
There are many who have been critical of prison events like the daddy-daughter dance. Critics say this event sends the wrong message, that it “softens” the idea of incarceration. That it blurs the lines of punishment. That events like this are nothing but cheap PR opportunities.
But the founder of God Behind Bars, Jake Bodine, explained it like this:
“I watched a group of men stand with pride and dignity, shedding every label the world had ever put on them. For one night they were not inmates. They were Dad…”
Another inmate said, “We’re supposed to be the worst of the worst and the hardest of the hardest… [But] seeing all of us together with our kids, the loves of our lives, with no masks… that was cool.”
Leslie had this to say: “We slow-danced and [my daughter] started crying again. I asked her why and she said, ‘Dad, I finally get a chance to dance with you for the first time.’”
As I say, it was quite a day.